


Crime and Potions

by shirleyholmes



Series: Tumblr Mini-fics [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Magic, Drabble, Fluff, Harry Potter References, Hogwarts, Humor, Kidlock, Mild Language, Parentlock, Potterlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:44:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes/pseuds/shirleyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamish has just turned 11. And a very special letter has turned up in the mailbox at 221b.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crime and Potions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kali_asleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali_asleep/gifts).



> Organizing/editing some rather old fiction from my tumblr account (theladyholmes.tumblr.com) and trying to get the pieces to the people they belong to. I'm feeling productivish today, it seems!
> 
> This Potter-verse fix was originally written for the lovely Teal at fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr.com and originally published [here](http://theladyholmes.tumblr.com/post/48650860887/fuckyeahteenlock-ironbatwoman) (Click for the gif set it goes with).

The knowledge that his flatmate was a wizard, should have, in retrospect, surprised John Watson a hell of a lot less then it had. But of course Sherlock was magical. Because why on earth should being the world’s only consulting arse of a detective be unique enough to satisfy him? No. He would just have to be a fucking fairy on top of it—

"I’m not a fairy, John," Sherlock had told him irately. "Wizard. Fairies are infuriating little humanoids that serve no earthly purpose save to infest people’s homes. They are incredibly vain and incredibly annoying."

"I though you were telling me you AREN’T a fairy?"

Sherlock hadn’t spoken to him for a week after that one.

….

And so here they were. And apparently carrying on the legacy was Hamish Adler-Holmes, the surprisingly lovable son of the two most diabolical people John had ever known (— _”That’s not quite true, John, Mycroft had no part in his conception”— “Good to know, thanks and now I need to go bleach the inside of my brain”—_ ).

So Hamish was a er— _wizard_ —too. Which would have been all right, really, except for the fact that an entire year away seemed an awful lot at 11. Not that John didn’t think he could handle it, mind you (Hamish was his son too, after all— maybe not in blood, but John took absolute credit for the fact that the kid was even remotely functioning, Holmes and Adler genes being what they were.)

"I’ll miss him," he mused aloud. 

"You’re far too sentimental." 

"Come off it— you’ll be absolutely unbearable. Remember when we first took him to pre-school? And you blew the top off of the microwave?"

"Wave experiment, couldn’t be helped—"

"We’re still paying off the bullet holes from summer camp two years ago—"

"I was bored!"

"And you nearly suffocated his date for the junior ball, don’t even try that with me."

"I told you, women— not my area."

"She was TEN, Sherlock." 

"9-12 is the average age of puberty in the UK. Don’t tell me they can be trusted."

It sometimes occurred to John to wonder at how truly remarkable a woman Irene Adler must have been. Well, either that or immaculate conception and no matter what Sherlock believed his was capable of—

"Hold on. Wizard."

Sherlock raised a smug eyebrow at him. “Took you long enough. If science can do it, we can do it better.”

"And she’s—"

"An absolute witch."

"SHERLOCK. Hamish could be right here."

"No, she is. Female Wizard. Witch."

"So that makes Mycroft, what? Mary Poppins?"

"He has a minor post running the Ministry of Ma— oh, speak of the devil."

"Problem, children?" a familiar voice drawled from the doorway. 

"We were discussing your resemblance to a certain over-protective nanny with a flying umbrella. Don’t you have a small country to demolish or something?" Sherlock asked acidly.

Mycroft’s smile could cut glass. “Hungary is hardly a small country, Sherlock. Do be politically correct.”

"Hold on— what did Hungary ever do to you?" John asked. A rather reasonable question, he thought, considering they were just casually chatting about the destruction of an European nation in his living room.

Mycroft looked at him disdainfully. “The Minister of Magic there insists upon letting his Horntails run amok over our borders. It is an offense on par with magical terrorism and we cannot allow it.”

"Of course—- do I want to know what a Horntail is? I don’t, do I?"

Apparently he didn’t, because both brothers ignored him. 

"You will, of course, be sending Hamish to Hogwarts for the up-coming term, will you not Sherlock?"

Sherlock chewed his lip. “I was thinking— home-schooling—”

Well, if he had been, then John certainly hadn’t heard about it. He thought about adding ‘magic’ to the increasingly disturbing list of experiments Sherlock already came up with— and shuddered. No, he didn’t need reanimated limbs in his fridge too, thanks and come to think of it, that blood seeping from under the attic door was incredibly suspicious— why hadn’t he thought about how suspicious that was before?

"Common house ghoul John, nothing to be frightened of."

"Right. And the blood...?"

Sherlock threw him a quelling look. 

Mycroft didn’t look any happier than John felt. “Tradition, Sherlock, tradition. We have a long line of Slytherins to uphold.”

"Ravenclaws as well, as if you’d forgotten."

"Yes, well, you never did care about our reputation, I suppose. But surely you wouldn’t deny your son the opportunity of a thorough magical education out of spite? What would Mummy say?"

"I don’t know. Why don’t you go ask her dead body," Sherlock snapped.

"That’s a bit rude, Sherlock," John said, a trifle shocked. "I mean, she is your mother."

"No, what’s a bit rude is that she’s still haunting his bedroom. No wonder he’s celibate, it’s enough to put anyone off."

John winced. “Alright. You know that line that I told you about? The one labeled ‘too much information’? Well it’s dead. It died. You fucking destroyed it.”

"Do I get a say in this?" Hamish piped up, extending his curly head around the corner.

"No," Sherlock and Mycroft said simultaneously.

John sighed. “Yes, of course you do. It’s your life and your opinion matters.”

Sherlock stared at him like he’d grown an extra head. Mycroft merely sniffed. John ignored both of them.

He beckoned to Hamish. “And what do you want, love?”

Hamish chewed his lip (and all right, that particular bad habit was probably John’s fault). “I want to go,” he said. Sherlock scowled.

"Ah— no—" John pointed a quelling finger in the direction of Mycroft. He could practically sense the smugness radiating off of the man and it was giving him a headache. 

"You sure, Hamish? Your father could teach you right here— we might not have a house to live in by the end of it, but there’s been worse done to my kettle, I’m guessing— speaking of which, Sherlock, you wouldn’t happen to know why my tea was blue yesterday, would you?"

Sherlock threw him an outraged glance. “If you insist upon using my potions cauldron for tea, John, I can’t be responsible for the deadly solutions that end up in your beverages.”

"Right, okay. That’s all I needed to know, I think." He turned back to Hamish.

"And so, mister—"

"I want to go, Dad."

"Right," John said. "That's settled then."

Mycroft smiled beautifically. “I’ll send the robes.Green would look stunning on him, don’t you think, Sherlock?”

"Blue, you raging bas—"

"Sherlock," John admonished, with a pointed look at their son. Not that they were fooling anyone. If Hamish didn’t know more swear words than a Royal Navy captain by this point, John would eat his hat.

Sherlock sniffed and flopped over. “Oh, have it your way.”

…………….

It occurred to John, the day after Hamish left, that Sherlock had been remarkably amiable about the whole thing. The incident with the illegal poisoned horns aside, he’d been a model parent, helping Hamish measure his robes and pick out his pet-- he’d even stopped himself from scribbling ‘wrong’ over all the textbooks, though John had seen him clench his teeth at the new Potions manual.

Something was definitely up.

"Alright, that’s it. Sherlock, why aren’t you sulking?"

"Ought I to be sulking?"

"Yes. Hamish just left. You should be sulking. Or at the very least blowing holes in our ceiling. And if you’re not, I need to know why."

"It occurred to me," Sherlock said, tapping his fingers together, "That there’s an open post at Hogwarts."

"Oh really?"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts. Quite my field, actually. I might apply."

"And what would you suggest I do?"

Sherlock shrugged. “Muggle Studies almost always has an opening.”

John fell back in his chair, flummoxed. “But we can’t just—”

"Why not?"

"Because— because Hamish needs his space and you need your crimes and I’m not a wizard, goddammit."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “There are crimes in the wizarding world. And parents are welcome, even the Muggle ones.” He pointedly didn’t address John’s first protest. 

"Am I actually considering this? Tell me I’m not actually considering this."

Sherlock grinned at him. “Could be dangerous.”

John sighed.

"We are the worst parents in the history of the world, aren’t we?"

"Don’t be silly, John. Giants make far worse parents than we do.”

"You know what? I bet they do."


End file.
